Dirt by Glenn Armstrong

Clenching my hands the fingers grip

The neck of my enemy pearly and pale;

And though I may end up wasting in jail

The death of the fiend merits the trip.

Traveling solo through every small town,

Never supplying my legal right name.

Avoiding the law is my daily game;

My crime has achieved widespread renown.

Life will never resume where it paused.

A murderer’s lot is to swing from a rope

Until the crowd sighs with the unified hope

That the killer has paid for the suffering caused.

Bury me in a pauper’s graveyard

Without the service that’s customary.

Leave me no marker in the cemetery;

My name is dirt, the ground granite hard.